The Roman Rule

Harmony's POV

I didn't know exactly how I was supposed to feel when I was assigned to the hockey team. On one hand, I was genuinely relieved to have secured an internship at this school. On the other hand, the moment I received the appointment to work with the team's injured players, it left an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

It was an instinctive reaction. My last affiliation with a case like this had ended very poorly in a scandal with an injured athlete that got me expelled from my previous college, and nearly destroyed my career before it even began.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine," Quinn, my roommate had tried to reassure me this morning.

But I wasn't fine. After the wreckage of my previous life, I had made a silent, solemn vow to myself: I would rather jump off the Burj Khalifa than get closely involved with another athlete.

Yet, here I was, a fresh transfer at a new school, only to be shoved right back into the lion's den to nurse wounded egomaniacs back to health.

That unpleasant weight in my chest only intensified when I walked into the clinic and realized who my first patient was.

It was Roman Foster, the notoriously arrogant star of the rink. Very talented, and a sexy hunk piece, but what did I care about that?

Except that the moment I walked through that door, my body did care a lot.

He was shirtless, and the sight of him was like a wall to the face. Six feet of solid muscle and athletic grace, crowned with a mane of blonde hair. His chest was toned, the kind of chest that belonged on a billboard, with a scattering of blonde chest hair that did everything make him even more attractive. My stomach flipped on its back, and I felt heat dance up the back of my neck.

"Get it together," I told myself sharply.

I forced the reaction down, locked it in a box and buried it. I had been down this road before with another shirtless athlete, devastating to look at. And I had paid for it with my entire academic career. I was not doing that again.

Roman Foster's nasty reputation preceded him, and that was all I needed to remember.

The doctor-in-charge was already waiting for me. But before I could even take another step into the room, Roman Foster glanced over at me with a lazy, self-satisfied look. He looked like he had been interrupted by this exact thing too many times to count.

"Let me stop you right there," he held up a hand to my face. "I really appreciate the dedication, but I'm not doing autographs right now. Come back another time, yeah?"

I blinked. "Excuse YOU?"

"The cast." He gestured down at his leg. "I know, I know. It's tempting. Very personal memento, very unique. But I'm not letting anyone sign it. You understand. I'm sure you have a hockey jersey at home I've already signed. That should be enough."

"I'm not here for an autograph from you," I told him, but he didn't look convinced. His eyes moved over me with bored amusement.

"It's okay. You don't have to pretend. They all say that."

He leaned back slightly, arms crossing over that stupidly distracting chest. "How did you even get past the front desk? Did you tell them you were a nurse or something?"

I stepped into the room, but I covered the discomfort with a practiced, clinical smile.

"Miss Sinclair, this will be your student patient for the time being. He has a kneecap injury from his last hockey game. And Mr Foster, meet Harmony Sinclair," the doctor-in-charge introduced me to him. "She'll be in charge of your recovery process, Mr. Foster."

"Hello, Mr Foster." I stretched out my hand to greet him, offering a professional olive branch. "As you can see, I'm not one of your crazy female fans."

He didn't even acknowledge my hand. Instead, he looked at my hand with pure disdain, then turned his gaze toward the doctor, bypassing me entirely.

"How can she be the one in charge of my recovery?"

"Miss Sinclair is one of our brightest interns," Dr. Sherman replied firmly. I felt a small feeling of gratitude for the doctor's support. "I personally interviewed her and found her work to be brilliant. She is the best person for you, Mr. Foster."

"Look at her. She's barely older than me!" Roman snapped, giving me a side-eye. "How is she supposed to get me recovered from a fractured kneecap in time for the playoffs? I need a professional, not a student!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Foster," the doctor replied with a shrug. "Harmony is the only person I can assign to you right now. The rest of the staff is at capacity."

Roman threw me another look, one so contemptuous I felt the urge to turn around and walk out right then. Then he scoffed and leaned back against the pillows as if he were a king being served by a peasant.

"I will leave both of you to it now," the doctor finally said and almost ran out of the room.

Roman Foster and I stared at each other in silence, before I finally broke it:

"How are you doing, Roman?" I asked. I tried for a smile again, but I was sure it looked more like a grimace. "Can I call you Roman?"

He didn't bother answering. He just stared at his busted knee before looking back up at me with cold, narrowed eyes. "Can you get me ready in time for the playoffs?"

"It's possible," I replied, leaning against the edge of the table. "But you're going to have to promise to cooperate with me. If we want to speed up the recovery process, I need you to actually follow the protocol."

"I'm sorry, but 'possible' doesn't cut it," Roman snarled, his fingers gripping the edge of the bed.

"It will have to," I replied, unable to keep the edge of annoyance out of my voice this time. I was done being polite. "Maybe you don't realize the severity of your situation, but you fractured your kneecap, and that looks like it is a patellar fracture. In the real world, that takes six to eight weeks of total rest just to heal the bone before we can even think about starting physiotherapy. From what I've heard, your playoffs are in three months. That gives us a razor-thin window. We'd have to be incredibly swift and disciplined. So, like I said: you cooperate, or you might as well forget about the playoffs and start looking for a new hobby."

"Oh, cut the crap!" Roman snapped, his face reddening. "If you can't guarantee I'll be on the ice, walk out now so I can get a competent doctor in here who can."

"You must have missed the part where Dr. Sherman said I'm the only one available," I replied coldly. At this point, my patience had frayed like a worn rope. This was going disastrously for a first day.

"Yeah, right." Roman snorted, his eyes scanning me with a mocking sort of pity. "A massive clinic like this and you're telling me there aren't any real doctors? You're just a kid in a lab coat."

"There are other cases to be attended to," I said through gritted teeth. "Serious cases. The world doesn't revolve around you, Hockey Boy. I am your only chance at getting back on that ice."

I watched as he straightened, waving a hand at me. "Wait. What part of 'I don't want you treating me' do you not understand? You'll probably just mess it up and make the injury worse. So get your ass out there and find someone who can fix me!"

"I am a certified sports therapist in training with a perfect clinical record," I reminded him, trying to rein my anger in.

Roman sneered. "Right. And I'm the President of the United States, then."

"You know what, fine!" I yelled, finally losing my grip on my temper. The professional mask shattered completely. "You don't want my help? Good! Treat yourself. Rot in that bed for all I care. See if I give a damn when your team loses without you."

I turned on my heel and stormed out of the room, the blood rushing to my face. I didn't look back. I was too busy trying to breathe through the rage.